


Whisper

by AvaKelly



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Clint Needs a Hug, Clint fucked up, Crying, Dealing With Loss, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, Guilt, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, M/M, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, Mourning, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Oblivious, Pining, Reconnections, Recovery, Sam Needs A Hug, Some fluff if you squint, Steve Is a Good Bro, Undercover, Understanding, clint is riley, getting together in a very convoluted roundabout way, love despite all hardships, tony is an exasperated bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-14 10:26:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7167383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaKelly/pseuds/AvaKelly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint is Riley.</p><p>That’s his cover. He’s sent by SHIELD to infiltrate the EXO Falcon unit, under the name of Riley Jones. </p><p>Sam watches Riley’s empty casket being lowered into the ground. He’s the only one there. There’s nothing left of Riley, nothing but the pain in Sam’s chest, nothing but the regret of never telling Riley how much he’s meant to Sam. </p><p>Chance brings him face to face with Clint Barton, alive, scratching the back of his head with that awkward little gesture, and saying “hey” like he hasn’t shattered Sam’s world to pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whisper

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! o/  
> I know, I know, I'm behind on the Nameless chapters. But look, shiny new fic. This has been niggling at me for a long while now, so I had to write it down. Many thanks to Hraf for enduring my whining and incessant ranting about this story. Got another deadline for work next week, so I don't know if I'll manage to write anything else this weekend. In the meantime, enjoy the angst with plot. Thank you for reading!

With a long exhale, Clint shakes his head again. "But sir, I'm not good at undercover work," he says.

"No buts, Barton," Fury returns as he leans into the desk separating them. "You already made sergeant, you've got the right training."

Clint looks at Natasha where she's leaning into the wall to his left. She shrugs minutely.

"Sir--"

"Barton."

And Fury stands up to his full imposing height. Aw, speech time. Clint hangs his head.

"This is our best chance to infiltrate the EXO Falcon. Someone in there is using this tech to attack innocent people. Two villages full of women and children have already been leveled. It is our responsibility to make sure it doesn't happen again."

A pause, as Fury interlocks his hands behind his back. Clint blinks at him. It doesn't sound any less pleasant than the first four times he's heard it.

"Right now they're taking two more operatives. You and this Lt. Wilson will be living with the rest of them. It will give us front row seats to their activities. Just be yourself," Fury continues. "We're using your own life to build you a background. Only instead of being recruited into SHIELD, you were recruited into a delta force team that you won't be allowed to talk about." He leans into the desk, lowering himself to be eye to eye with Clint, and Clint swallows. "You are the best man for the job."

He'd rather not, actually. His time in the military hasn't been the most stellar... well, if he's honest with himself, that part of his past always brings a bitter pang, because that's when he's had most friends. It felt a lot like family. But now is not the time to dwell on how he's lost it, not when Fury's digging into his soul with that scrutinizing stare. Clint's going to regret this later, but he can't take more of this motivational crap.

"Fine," he sighs.

"You're gonna love flying, Barton," Fury grins.

Natasha shakes her head, but she walks out with him, supportive in her silence.

~

They spend the next week training for this. Nat helps him get into character, as she puts it. Fury was right, he doesn't have to memorize too many things. The name's a little trickier, but he gets used to be called Ri and Riley and Jones.

The dog tags make his chest itch.

~

Midday sunlight floods the tarmac and Clint squints his eyes against it. He's waiting for transport to their new base, somewhere in a deserted part of Nevada. And by deserted he means both as geography and as in lacking urban areas in its vicinity. He's not really looking forward to the heat and the sand.

Training's going to take four weeks, or less if they perform well, after which they'll be sent in combat with the rest of the EXO unit. Until then, Clint's going to be stuck with this Wilson guy.

Well, Clint's read his file. He sounds like a good man, skilled and upstanding. Good at his job. SHIELD's already vetted him, he's got nothing to do with the tech leak, so that makes Clint feel safer. If Wilson's going to be his partner in this, Clint would rather not have to watch his back against him as well. Partners are supposed to trust each other.

The first thing Clint sees is dark skin glistening under the sun, the biggest smile ever, and eyes so filled with life, it sends him into a full body shiver.

"Sam Wilson," the man says, hand extended.

Clint's breath is stuck in his throat, but he manages to shake his hand. "Jones. Riley Jones."

Wilson snorts. "What, you're a super spy now?"

For a moment, Clint thinks his cover's blown, but it doesn't take long until the meaning of the joke dawns on him.

"You're funny, I like you."

"You better," Wilson returns, and is that a wink? "Can't ruin my rep of a likable guy."

The trip to the base is filled with the same small chatter between them, just the basic stuff, like it should be between two guys who're going to be living in each other's space for the foreseeable future. It's light and they click just fine, so Clint finds himself relaxing. Maybe this won't end badly after all.

~

"You won't believe who I met today. It was Cap. The real thing, Captain America. Remember when they found him a couple of years back? He's... uh, he's big. And a troll," Sam gestures. "You'd like him, he'd like you. Oh! And he flirts like a school boy."

A smile stretches Sam's lips.

"I imagine you'd be the same, Ri."

Sometimes he wonders how Riley would've flirted if they weren't in service. If they would've met on the street, or at the market. If he'd still be al...

Sam presses his fingertips on the cold headstone, huddles closer on his knees, presses his entire side into it. He can't hold it in anymore, so he leans his forehead on the stone, allows the memories to spill from his eyes.

It's been almost four years and Sam's heart is still shredded. In pieces. And on days like these, around this time of the year, as he gets closer to that moment, he can rarely hold it in. The hurt invades him so quickly, that he's left numb for hours on end.

So he lets it.

Tomorrow it will happen all over again, until the anniversary of... of... Sam presses his palm on the date etched into the stone.

His inhale is shaky as he draws air into his lungs.

"I flirted... back," he gasps while sobs start wrecking his frame. "He's adorable... but not... as much... as you, baby. Why the fuck did you leave me..."

Everything burns, his throat closes around nothing, the emptiness surrounding him painful in its weightlessness.

He cries until his face is hot and his mouth is too thirsty to endure.

Until he can lean into the stone wrung out and lifeless.

It would be so easy to... no! Sam sucks air in, blinks repeatedly as he tries to focus on the tree nearby. He wipes at his cheeks and eyes, reminds himself that Riley wouldn't want this. Sam will join him when the time comes, but not of his own doing. Yeah.

He breathes in and out, an exercise his therapist taught him. Slowly but surely, the world comes back, sounds and sunlight, the smell of fresh air overlaying the careful order of the military cemetery.

There's no one around, so he presses a peck on top of the headstone.

He's never had the chance to kiss Riley. They've been close, so fucking close, but because of their jobs, it never came up. Besides, Riley was his friend. Sam would never, not in a million years, have jeopardized Riley's career by doing something as stupid as confessing having romantic feelings for him. Loving him as a brother was all he ever wanted. To be close to Riley, to be in his life, to care for him.

Yet.

Yet, Riley was taken from Sam.

Suddenly and violently. Sam shudders with the memory of the explosion, the fire, Riley falling to the ground, his wings burning, taking Sam's heart with him.

That pain hasn't left Sam since.

But he's allowed to love Riley. It's his right, actually. To love him and wait. Try to live a little in his memory until Sam can join him. It's what drives him forward sometimes, when it gets overwhelming. When Riley's death approaches.

"I'll see you tomorrow, baby," he whispers, patting the stone.

~

Maybe it's not healthy to return here, where it hurts the most. But Sam will never love anyone else like this. He's accepted he'll never get over Riley and he'll give everything to have him back.

It's why some people at the center like to talk to him. Because he understands. He's lived it, he's still living it.

So for two months, before that day, he is here every morning. Tells Riley everything. Relives their last weeks together.

He starts back at a jog. The memory of Riley is right next to him, the way they tried to make each other laugh during training. Their morning runs would always get them frowns and light reprimands, so Sam lets himself fall back into that place, where laughter was real.

Home is quiet and empty, the shower is cool on his heated skin. He pours himself a glass of juice when a knock on his door draws his attention.

Captain America needs his help.

Steve's come by the center a few times, then at Sam's place a couple of nights to watch movies and drink beer, but he's never been in Sam's bedroom before. So he slips the picture of him and Riley in the drawer of the nightstand before he leads them inside to clean up. He busies himself with getting some food for them.

Natasha watches him too intently as they eat, while Steve tells Sam about how SHIELD is corrupt, how Fury is dead and the world is in danger. It's almost as if she's studying him. Sam figures anyone would be protective of Captain America.

But circumstances are dire, and he spares no second thought in offering his assistance. It's what Riley would've done.

They bring him his wings back.

He's missed those something fierce. After Riley was gone, he couldn't do it anymore. He retired. He guesses the worst was when he stood over Riley's fresh grave, an almost empty casket lowered into the ground. Riley didn't have any family left, the guys in the unit were still deployed, and all that was left was Sam staring into the void of death.

Flying again feels like flying with Riley.

But then his steering wheel is ripped right out of his hands and they're fighting a ghost.

Steve's ghost to be exact, a man pulled out of time and grave to destroy everything they hold dear. Sam can see the pain on Steve's face, when his lost friend doesn't know him. Sam would be devastated if the same happened to him.

They're loaded onto a van, one with shackles already in place there. It makes Sam break in goosebumps. Who the hell were those for? They seem already used, and now Steve's held in them, no obvious possibility of escape. But their luck changes when an agent saves them. Her name's Hill and Sam likes her no nonsense style.

Natasha's bleeding, even though Sam's tried to stop it. She needs more help than he can offer with no medical supplies.

They hurry to an empty facility, or at least it looks empty. It's a decommissioned dam right outside the city, built there before the course of the river was changed to accommodate for urbanization.

Sam's running inside, Natasha between him and Steve, pressing onto her wound, when a man meets them.

"GSW, lost a lot of blood," Sam tells the man.

"She's gonna want to see him first," Hill returns.

They're led through a corridor, then a plastic sheet is pulled aside to reveal a field medical setup inside a room. There's a man lying on the bed there. Steve calls him Fury, but Sam's ears stop working.

His fingers are numb.

Because next to the bed... next to it... there's Riley.

Alive, scratching the back of his head with that awkward little gesture of his, and saying "hey" like he hasn't shattered Sam's world to pieces.

It's impossible.

"Sam Wilson, director Fury," he hears Steve says.

It's muffled and distant, but Sam forces himself to nod at the man.

"And this is Clint Barton, Hawkeye."

Hawk... the Avenger on the news. The... the... no. No, no, no.

Realization rushes in, that Riley's been alive all along. Sam wouldn't believe it, he could be a doppelganger, a fucking coincidence, but there's a faint scar above Riley's right eyebrow, where Sam accidentally grazed him with the wings their first day out.

It's him, alive, for all this time. For all of Sam's pain...

And Sam can't accept that.

Riley is dead.

This man that looks at him expectantly, this man that looks happy to see Sam... how dare he? How can he trample on Sam's heart like this?

So he does what everyone does when meeting a stranger.

He locks his jaw and extends his hand.

"Nice to meet you," he says, the chill in his veins slipping into his words, but he doesn't stop it.

The man in front of him doesn't deserve anything more right now.

~

When Nat told Clint a few weeks back that she's seen Sam with Steve, Clint's Sam, he didn't want to believe it. But he saw Sam with his own eyes. He even went to the vet center two times, but couldn't make himself approach Sam. He's been close to it exactly eight times in the past four years, but Clint's a coward. Couldn't face Sam.

Couldn't face rejection.

He tried to forget about him, but the feelings never went away.

Feelings.

The love he holds for Sam transcends every kind of love he's ever felt in his entire life. Nat comes a very close second, but a second nonetheless. Not to get him wrong, he'd be bereft without her. She's his life. But Sam... Sam is his soul.

So it feels ripped out of him when Sam doesn't acknowledge him.

When Sam looks at him with coldness in his eyes, hard and painful, hand extended like they've never met before. His palm burns Clint's.

It's all he can do but stand there numb, listening to Steve's account of their meeting with the Winter Soldier. With Bucky Barnes, returned from the grave. He focuses on Steve and his hurt instead of his own, but that doesn't help, on the contrary. Finally, Clint turns on his heels and walks away because he can't afford breaking down in front of everyone there.

He vaguely hears Nat calling after him, but then there are other voices overlapping hers, talking about medical care. He's been worried to suffocation when Hill's called with news that Nat's been wounded, but she's alive. She's going to be fine.

And all that's left for him to feel right now is the crippling hurt of the rejection he's feared thrown into his face.

It's his fault, of course it is... but any sliver of hope he had is now stifled beyond recognition.

Clint slides down the cold wall, limbs shaking, breaths too short.

It must be a while before he finally registers his surroundings. He's outside, right on top of the dam, next to the rusty metal door leading inside, where Sam is. So close, yet so unreachable.

The hinges squeak and footsteps fall heavily, feet stop next to him.

It's Steve, looking like Clint feels. Like his entire world got flipped. Clint scoots to the side and Steve sits down, close enough for Clint to feel his body heat. But it just augments the chill settling in his bones.

"He doesn't know me," Steve rasps. "My..."

Sam doesn't know Clint either.

Clint's exhale gets stuck and he chokes, something hot burning down his cheek. Steve sniffles and everything swirling within Clint breaks free. They're sitting there, crying like children. The irony is not lost on him. Big bad Avengers, brought down to crumbles.

~

"Why are you crying?" Steve asks after they've calmed down, handing over a tissue.

Clint busies himself with blowing his nose. "Why are you?" he rasps, rubbing his palm over his cheek.

"My best friend's been tortured for seventy years," Steve says.

Good old Steve. Clint's always admired his bluntness. But the horror that Steve is going through makes his own seem ridiculous, and Clint curls into himself.

"You don't have to tell me," Steve continues quietly.

Maybe Clint's been silent longer than he thought. He takes a deep breath.

"I hurt Sam," he returns and Steve turns toward him, eyebrows raised. Clint looks away. "You can hate me now."

"I don't--"

"Hey man, you here?" Sam's voice drifts over as the door opens.

Clint doesn't see his face, but he can almost feel the stillness in the air. So he runs inside as fast as he can, heart pounding behind his ribs. He finds Nat all patched up, an IV still running into her arm.

~

"Wanna tell me what that is all about?" Steve asks.

Sam shakes his head, takes a few steps away onto the dam. The air is fresh and cool on his face. So many things have happened today. It's overwhelming. This morning he was hugging Riley's headstone, now he is face to face with the man himself. Sam rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms.

Steve stands, and when Sam looks up, he's met with worry. Steve has a lot on his mind right now, he shouldn't be burdened with Sam's shit as well.

"It's not important," he offers.

"Yeah, Sam, it is."

Steve's voice is soft. He's hurting, perhaps more than Sam is right now. The parallel doesn't escape him. He knows how close Steve was with Bucky... Steve needs to know someone understands. That's why he tells him.

"That man. Clint." Sam swallows. "Clint is Riley."

He sees the exact moment when Steve realizes what Sam is saying. He's told him about Riley. They've both talked about their loss.

Steve leans into the wall behind him, eyes unfocused toward the sky.

Fuck. Fuck this.

~

"You good?" Nat asks quietly.

Clint shakes his head.

"What happened to your arm?"

A snort escapes him. He almost forgot about the cast around his left wrist. It's why he hasn't been there with Nat and Steve fighting today. He was up on the roof of his farm when Hill called, and he lost his balance like a dummy that he is. Nat was already out of reach by the time Clint got to DC. "Just me being an idiot, he says. How are you?"

"Gonna heal," she returns. "Clint."

"Yeah." He swallows. He doesn't want to look at her, to see disappointment there, but he does anyway.

He's met with kindness and a small smile. "It will pass," she whispers. "He'll forgive you. Be patient."

Clint doesn't want to believe her, but she's using that voice. The one for controlling her marks. And Clint lets her lull him away from his head. Lives are at stake. He draws air through his nose.

"Ok," he says. "Do it."

Her fingers are warm on his cheek. She tells him about the mission. About how they will fight and how they will win. And when her lips touch his other cheek, he's submerged in it. Hawkeye up front, numbness in the back. She'll help him deal with it later.

"Barton," Fury's voice drifts over as he approaches, "you with us?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." Nat and Fury exchange looks, then Nat nods.

Mh. Clint couldn't care less what Fury thinks right now.

"I'm out after this," he tells the director.

"Barton--"

"No. I'm done."

"We're both done," Natasha adds.

Fury presses his lips in a grimace.

"Just got word," Hill strides over, "Pierce has convened the council, they're on their way to DC now, will land in the morning."

That spurs Fury into action. "We need a plan," he says, and then they're moving.

~

Of course Steve wants to save Bucky. Of course.

Sam tries to talk him out of it, but he already knows it's a done deal. If it were Ri, he'd be doing the same. Even with all this hurt suffocating him, he'd... but this is not the time. He shakes himself of it.

Riley's still dead, he tells himself. That asshole with Riley's face is not him.

Their quiet moment gets interrupted soon enough, and they're downstairs again, discussing attack plans.

Steve insists SHIELD goes down along with HYDRA.

They each have their tasks. Sam's going in with Cap and Hill, Nat's taking the place of a councilwoman, while Clint is going to intercept said council member and take her to safety. Sam's a little relieved Clint's not fighting with them, because he can't afford to be distracted.

He still breaks his damn leg. Goes well with his bruised ribs.

Sam sighs at himself as he sits next to Steve's bed at the hospital. Steve's healing is accelerated, but Sam's isn't. It will take a while for him to heal and he scowls. Just his luck to make it safely out of a crumbling building. He hit his ribs while landing inside the chopper Fury was flying, just as a helicarrier was crushing into the floor of the Triskelion behind him. That was a nice save, Sam's grateful.

But then. Then! Some stray fucks attacked right as they were landing. A bullet hit the chopper's rotor. They were close to the ground, but Fury still lost control and they had to jump out. Hence the broken leg.

Sam growls low in his throat, tries to focus on the soft tune of Marvin Gaye filling the room.

Next to him there's movement, then a whisper. "On your left," Steve says and Sam can't help but smile at that.

They've survived. That's important right now.

~

"Steve's out of the hospital," Nat says, dropping her phone on the table.

Clint nods as he beelines to the coffee maker, fills a mug.

"Sam's leg is still broken," she adds.

Clint keeps his eyes firmly on the cast of his arm. He huffs at the coincidence.

They've been here for the past week. Iowa's quiet this time of the year. Actually, Iowa's quiet at all times. It's one of perks of having a safehouse in the middle of nowhere, only corn fields as far as the eye can see.

Clint has cover, though. There are large trees in a thick patch around the house, and he has two underground tunnels, one leading on the other side of the trees where an additional barn sits, and the other takes him to the highway. The neighbors know nothing, he dug those years back, under the guise of repairing the water and electricity lines.

Beyond that, he's surrounded by corn. It's not his. He's renting the land to the Millers up the road, takes vegetables and other groceries in return. Gamma Miller still makes a mean jam. Clint remembers her from when he was a kid. Other than these and old man Sampson down the road, the other farms have changed owners since he left after his parents' accident. Clint doesn't know to this day how Fury managed to get his house back, but it was one of the perks of joining SHIELD. He found it decrepit, but undisturbed. Apparently the bank didn't get around to sell it forward while Clint was busy running with the circus and joining the army.

It's better now, he's been restoring it with his own hands. He likes the work. Apart from the tunnels, he didn't want to hire anyone else. This is his space, his safe world. And he cares for it whenever he's back from missions. Well, he'll have plenty of time now.

Clint sniffles as he stares into his coffee. He's tired. Hasn't managed much sleep since DC. Since Sam.

"So, I might have told Steve he can bring Sam here to heal."

Clint's head snaps up and he chokes a little. "And he agreed?" he asks, incredulous. He can't help the way his heart swells with hope.

"We'll see when they get here," Nat returns.

Aw, crap. Clint slumps back in his chair. Sam's going to take one look at him and run as fast as he can.

"That's not nice of you," he mutters.

"It was Steve's idea." Natasha shrugs, innocence on her face.

"And you had nothing to with it."

"I might have suggested you own a place off of SHIELD's grid."

Clint narrows his eyes. Very sneaky. When he made that deal with Fury to take this place off the record altogether, he didn't know it would come to this. Now he can't tell if he's grateful or what...

"Hey," Nat says, drawing his attention, "I know how much he means to you. This is your chance to talk to him. Take it."

"Yeah," Clint mutters.

But it feels more like an impending execution.

~

"Hell no."

"Sam," Steve starts, but Sam's already trying to climb back into the car.

Warm fingers wrap around his arm. Steve's touch is soft, but it manages to keep Sam there. He looks up to be met with concern. Out of the corner of his eyes, Sam can still see Barton as he stands on the porch next to Natasha.

"Nat gave me a quick rundown of what happened. I think you should at least talk to him," Steve says.

Talk to him? When did Steve become an authority of what goes on in his life and Sam should and shouldn't do...

"The hell do you know?" Sam grits. He shouldn't take it out on Steve, but he's so mad right now. Surprises as unpleasant as this always have consequences.

Steve takes a deep breath, like he's about to spew patriotic bullshit and Sam narrows his eyes.

"Look, I've known Clint for over two years," Steve returns. "He's a good man. He's had his reasons, believe me."

Sam shakes his head. "I don't care for excuses--"

"That alien invasion in New York? It did things to all of us. Please, hear him out," Steve says, voice low and too pleading. "You're my friend, he's my friend, and I know you both enough to say you two need to talk. Trust me on this."

Fuck. This is unfair. Cap's been his hero since he was a little boy. Sam swallows then braves a look toward the house. Barton's standing there, knuckles white around the pole of the banister surround the porch, his other hand in a cast. His face is blank, too pale, body immobile. He looks like death and Sam shudders.

"'Sides," Steve adds, "any moment you want out of here, me and Natasha are a phone call away."

"Isn't she his friend?" Sam mutters. Why would Natasha help Sam?

"Clint doesn't want to keep you here against your will. Just... give him a chance."

Sam looks back at Steve. He's got that stubborn face on, and Sam's pretty sure he'll have to spend at last one night here.

"You'll be safe here," Steve continues. "Clint's good at this, he'll keep you away from danger. HYDRA might be after us, so please."

"Wow," Sam breathes, shaking his head. "Did you make a list?"

"Actually, I did," Steve returns, crossing his arms. "There are plenty reasons to stay and none to leave."

Sam snorts. But Steve has a point. That's why he has his most prized possessions in a cardboard box in the trunk. Because his place could be raided at any time.

"What're you gonna do in the meantime?" he asks Steve.

"Nat and I will track down a couple of leads. We also gotta see Tony back in New York, and make sure Peggy's location hasn't been compromised."

Yeah, Steve is saying a lot, except for the thing that bugs him most. Sam sighs. If he stays here, it will be one less worry for Steve.

At least that's what he tells himself as he wobbles toward the house.

~

The evening unwinds quietly as Sam settles in. All the bedrooms are upstairs, but there's a very comfortable sofa in the living room, so that's where Natasha tells him he'll sleep. Steve drops Sam's duffel bag on the coffee table, then places his box of things on a half empty shelf on the far wall. It's as if that space had been waiting for his box, and it gives Sam a shiver.

Then Natasha distracts him, taking him around the space. Bathroom is down the hall, kitchen's across. An old dining room without furniture opens on the other side of the living room, then a sun room beyond that, hosting only a couple of blankets and a pillow on the floor, next to a few scattered books. It looks so cozy. Barton must've been reading there. Sam wonders how the stars look through the large glass windows out here.

Dinner is also pretty silent. Steve seems far away, Natasha eyes them all with interest, and Barton... he keeps his gaze on his plate. Not even as much as a glance toward Sam.

It drives a pang through the middle of his chest.

Yet, when he places his head on the pillow, he falls asleep faster than he's had in years.

By the time he wakes up, Steve and Natasha are already gone. There's coffee, still warm, in the pot on the counter and a note on the kitchen table.

_ 'Went to get groceries. BBS. Make yourself at home. Clint' _

The handwriting is exactly the same. Sam snorts and moves to pour himself a mug. He'd expect more of a spy.

But hey, the invitation is right there. So Sam will snoop to his heart's content. The kitchen is just any old kitchen. The shelves in the living room are full of books, but there are no pictures. On a closer look, there don't seem to be any personal items anywhere. So maybe they're upstairs.

Sam is looking warily between the steps and his crutch when he hears a truck pull up. Next time, then, he thinks, and wobbles toward the front door.

"Oh," Barton says as he walks in, two bags in his arms. "Uh, hi."

He only looks at Sam for the briefest of moments before he walks toward the kitchen.

There are fresh veggies in the bags, a few cans of soup, some meat, and Barton shuffles around, placing things where they belong. There's a soft cast on his left wrist, he shouldn't be using that hand as much as he does.

"Still got some rice, but if you want pasta or um, just," he waves at the fridge where a notepad hangs, "put it on the list."

And he's gone through the back door leading outside before Sam can say anything.

That's when he realizes, how his breath has been stuck in his throat this whole time. How his heart's beating in a frenzy against his ribs. Because... because this image of Riley putting away food, puttering around the kitchen, it's been in Sam's dreams more than once.

~

Clint inhales and exhales, trying to calm himself as he leans against the wall of the house. Who is he kidding, he can't do this.

Sam terrifies him. Clint can't even look at him without wanting to blurt... things. A lot of things that he's pretty sure Sam won't appreciate.

So he keeps his head down, grateful that, for a change, his mouth does what it's supposed to and keeps itself shut.

His chest itches and Clint's hand rubs there, finding nothing. Right. He's left those upstairs.

He rounds the house, sneaks in through the front door, managing to get to his bedroom unseen. They're right where he's left them, under the pillow. Sam's dog tags. There little pieces of Sam have saved him from himself over and over again, especially after New York. He stole them when Fury pulled him out, kept them hidden for a long while. But then Loki... Clint needed something to soothe that place in the middle of his chest where it hurt the most. Sam was there for him, just like always, even if unaware.

Clint wraps the chain around his hand, the tags cradled carefully inside his palm, and leans his forehead on his closed fist.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm so sorry."

His phone rings, startling Clint, and when he looks at the clock on the screen, it's been an hour already.

"Good morning, birdbrain."

"Tony," Clint replies. "It's already noon."

"Time is relative," comes back. Tony sounds wired.

"Did you sleep last night?"

"Nah. So I hear you've finally got your prince charming back. Yet another bird, and this one actually flies. Oh, the potential for pun--"

"You know," Clint interrupts, "I don't understand how you and Steve find the time to gossip."

There's a click when Tony snaps his mouth shut. "We talked last night," Tony says, a lot more subdued.

Clint rubs his forehead. "None of us saw it coming," he offers.

"Bet Tasha's pleased about that."

A snort and Clint shrugs, even though Tony can't see him. "There's gonna be repercussions."

"Actually, that's why I called. Also, to get the juicy details."

"No juice yet."

A groan comes through the speakers. "Please tell me that wasn't a come joke."

It pulls an unexpected huff of laughter from Clint. "Wish it were the case," he breathes.

Silence follows. Aw.

"Yeah," comes back finally and Clint curls into himself. Tony understands. "So hey, I need a favor."

Clint hums.

"We need faster transpo, and I'd do it myself, but it will be quicker to fix it than to build it from scratch, so. Can you find out where they are? Weren't in the info dump from SHIELD."

"What weren't?"

"The plans for the quinjet design."

Ah. Clever.

"Let me see what I can do," Clint returns.

It's easier to put his mind into gear, searching mentally for the name of those scientists Clint is pretty sure were involved in the construction of the quinjets. He needs to check, but he thinks one of them retired a few years back, somewhere up north. She might know something, or have some research. Clint wonders briefly why Tony didn't ask Fury, but pushes it out of his mind. Fury isn't the most sharing person, even on his good days.

~

Clint busies himself with searching for contacts that are still alive. A lot of good agents have been lost, and each news of passing brings a grimace to his face. In between this and preparing meals for them, Clint manages to do a great job at avoiding Sam for the next few days.

And he figures this out when he steals a glance, only to be met with a scowl so deep, it freezes the blood in his veins.

The sunlight of early morning streams through the window at an angle, and it sits there unmoving.

In utter stillness, just like Clint's body, frozen under Sam's glare that he gives the coffee in front of him where he sits at the kitchen table.

Clint hangs his head, fingertips pressing onto the dog tags under his sweater.

~

Sam runs his finger around the place where the bottom of his mug meets the table.

It's been five days and everything hurts.

This house is beautiful. He adores it. He hasn't been upstairs yet, but even down here some parts of it seem pulled right out of Sam's dreams. Like the sun room, for instance. The wall separating it from the dining room seems new, and although Sam can't be sure if the large windows were part of the original design, it feels like it's been waiting for him.

But that couldn't be. Why would Ri--Barton, why would Barton care? He hasn't even looked Sam in the eye once.

And it stings more than Sam's willing to admit.

"I'm sorry."

Sam's head snaps up. Barton stands there, staring at his feet, but he's said something and Sam waits, heart stuck in his throat. Maybe now he'll have a reason for his four years of pain.

But the seconds trickle away and nothing else comes.

The air is still. Heavy.

"That's it? That's all you have to say."

Barton shifts then, looking to the side, mouth opening and closing.

The lump is Sam's throat expands, burns behind his eyelids.

He needs air. Now.

So he grabs his crutch, clambers to his feet with too little coordination for his liking. He's come here and for what... Sam swears under his breath as he steps outside, then down the stairs. The fucking wood is wet with dew and the crutch slips, his hand slides on the banister and Sam closes his eyes as he waits to faceplant into the ground.

A hand grips his shoulder and Sam regains his balance. But the touch burns through his t-shirt, reminding him of everything he's lost.

"Don't touch me," he grits, tearing himself away.

Clint stumbles back, and when Sam looks up, his eyes are wide, the widest Sam's ever seen. He looks terrified enough to make Sam's chest hurt.

Clint? No, no, it's Barton.

And Sam growls at himself as he walks away.

~

Clint can't stop shaking, for hours on end.

So he does what he does best. He runs. Well, actually, he leaves to meet with a contact regarding those quinjet plans. Perhaps a couple of days away will help get his head straight. And then maybe he'll be able to talk to Sam without wanting to burst into tears.

Sam deserves better.

~

_ 'Gone til Thursday. Meeting contact for Tony. Call Judy Miller if you need food (number on fridge). Sorry. C.' _

Sam presses his lips together. Three fucking days. He's pissed for a moment until he realizes it's three days for Sam to find out as much as he can about Clint Barton. This man that wears Riley's face, has Riley's voice, his goddamn eyes...

A deep breath.

He takes his time, though, makes himself some coffee, gets an egg and a tomato to go with it. He eats slowly, then waits a couple more hours before making his way upstairs. The steps are a little too steep for his wobbling, but he manages.

The landing is a long hallway with four doors, two on each side. At the far end, another staircase, this one narrow and shorter, leads to what can only be the door to the attic. Sam starts with the rooms here, one by one.

First, to the far left, there's a bathroom, door hanging open already. Sam does a cursory inspection. Nothing out of the ordinary, just a usual bathroom, a little larger than the one downstairs. The shelves below the sink hold the expected items, from spare toothbrushes to cleaners. There's also a cabinet behind the mirror, but there's nothing in there except for shaving supplies and an unopened bottle of sleeping pills. It's dated two years ago. Sam makes a mental note of it.

Next, a room on the right that has the floorboards covered in a plastic tarp. Barton must have been working in here. In the corner, next to a ladder and a box of tools, there are a couple of buckets overflowing with ripped off wallpaper, a soft hue of green. There's a darker shade of the color on the wood paneling that surrounds the walls of the room halfway up, the paint old and flaking. One side is already scrubbed down, the exposed wood now stained with clear coating. It looks good.

Sam's about to step out when he sees it. Right in the middle of the reconditioned part, three panels that hold color. He steps closer, bends down to get a better look.

And suddenly he's transported back to one of those nights when he and Riley were too wired to fall asleep immediately, and they'd spend a couple of hours talking about... everything.

It's why he knows that Ri's mother used to mark his and his brother's growth with stars for Ri and suns for the other boy. It's one of Riley's happier childhood memories.

With an inhale, Sam runs his fingers over the dry coating. Stars and suns are perfectly preserved underneath, small scribbles and the handprint of a child over one of the lines. It's plum juice that never came out unless the entire panel went with it.

Sam shouldn't know this. Yet... he closes his eyes, pressing his palm over his mouth.

No.

And he shakes his head, swallowing painfully around his dry throat.

The evidence is right here.

This is Riley's home.

But Cli--Ba... Barton. He's not. He's not Riley.

Sam shakes his head more firmly with a growl, turns away from the memory, and stomps as much as he can in his cast on his way out of the room.

He makes it to the middle of the hallway before he plops down on the floor and presses the heels of his palms against his eyes.

There's a soft thump as the crutch rocks where he's dropped it next to him, and Sam listens, counts his breaths.

Focuses on the mission.

Yeah, he has a mission. To find out as much as he can about the man living in this house. So he pushes both bitterness and hope out of his mind, climbs to his feet, steps toward the other door on the right side of the landing.

This room looks reconditioned already. Several desks, shelves, cabinets fill the space, holding computers and radios, all sorts of equipment. There are a lot of books here, too, but these ones are operations manuals and specs for various techs, from weapons to listening devices.

Huh.

Sam pokes at a keyboard and the monitor next to it comes to life. There are four camera feeds on the screen, covering what looks to be the road leading to the house and corn fields. There's a small circle bouncing around on the images, as if it's searching for something, and Sam follows it with his eyes until he notices the Stark logo in the corner.

He snorts to himself. Knowing Captain America personally sounds more plausible than knowing Tony Freakin' Stark. But IronMan's an Avenger, and Steve has talked plenty about him. It just... Sam grew up in a whole different world.

Sometimes his entire life seems surreal.

So the house is monitored, Sam muses as he clicks on the menu on the screen. He spends a while digging through the system, but he finds no evidence that there are any more cameras or listening devices inside as well. So that's good, he reckons, as he makes his way out into the hallway again.

There are two doors left, one that surely must lead to Clint's bedroom and the other one to the attic. His leg gives a twinge and Sam rubs at it over the cast, although it doesn't help.

It's lunch time anyway, so Sam takes time for that. He spends half of the afternoon eating slowly on the steps of the back porch, food ashy in his mouth, trying not to think about Clint and the stars and the plum juice stain.

~

With a sigh, Clint slides his sunglasses back on. His chest misses the weight of the dog tags, but Clint's left those safely at home. He can't afford to lose them if he runs into HYDRA.

He waves at Dr. Ackerman before climbing into his rental car. She was one of the scientists involved in the construction of the quinjets, and Clint's tracked her down. She gave him her badges and passcodes for the research facility that holds most of SHIELD's tech research and prototypes. Held, actually. Clint is not sure the place hasn't fallen into HYDRA hands, so he pulls up on the side of the road to call Nat. His hand hurts and Clint glares at it.

"Hey," he starts immediately as the call connects, "so I need to get into the Hive base, do you know if it's friendly or--"

"Clint."

It's clipped and short and Clint sighs. Here's to hoping he'd manage to avoid the lecture. But nope. Nat knows him better than anyone.

"I just needed to get away to think for a couple of days," he says.

A pause, then a muttered swear in Russian. "Did you at least talk to him?"

In the background, Clint hears Steve's voice.

"I will," Clint returns, but it sounds hollow even to his own ears.

Nat tuts at him.

"Look, I just need to grab something from the Hive, then I'll go back and tell him everything. Promise."

A longer pause this time, and then Steve speaks. "It's crawling with HYDRA. You need backup. Where are you? We can pick you up."

"Nah, I'll grab Tony."

"Clint," Nat says and it sounds so definitive, Clint's skin breaks into goosebumps. "You're still injured. Where. Are. You."

Clint closes his eyes, drawing a long inhale before he rattles off the coordinates. So much for having some space. But they're right. They've both heard about the Hive in the past, it's one of those facilities with automated defenses and then some.

~

The light of the lowering sun slants in large patches over the hallway as Sam returns upstairs. The air is still, his breaths loud in his own ears. He finds himself clutching too tightly at the handle of his crutch as he stares at the last unopened door on the left side of the landing. It most likely leads to Clint's bedroom and Sam is afraid of what he might find in there.

He doesn't even want to think about it, not right now, so he shakes himself and turns to the attic door.

The space is large and open. Stacks of boxes sit against the far wall, more shelves with plastic containers line the others. In the middle, two old sofas, a beanbag, and three ratty armchairs surround a couple of coffee tables. On closer inspection, the boxes on the shelves have more books, dvds, music cds, while the cardboard ones on the other side are labeled 'mom's things' and 'clothes' and other such items that Sam doesn't feel like he should rifle through.

There's nothing much in here. It looks like a place to have people over and get stoned while listening to obscure music. There's even a banged up media center shoved between two cabinets, but it's covered in a layer of dust. Must have been a long while since anyone hanged out up here.

However, the two windows that slant over the space on each side of the roof have a couple of steps leading up to their sills.

Hm.

Sam moves to the one that's oriented toward the front of the house. A bunch of sofa cushions that have seen better days lay next to the window and Sam raises an eyebrow before opening the pane. It takes a little maneuvering, but he manages to sit on the sill. A flatter portion of the roof stretches outside the window, a low railing surrounding it. Sam hasn't noticed it when he arrived, just thought of it as decoration, but apparently he was wrong. Purple stains cover the tiles there. The dye from the cushions inside must have washed out from rain and sun.

So this place is for sitting.

Sam leans back and grabs one of the pillows, then scoots himself outside.

Ah, a light breeze shifts the air, the horizon far away and dipped in blurry tints of grayish blue.

This spot is amazing, and Sam closes his eyes against the rustle of tree leaves. The sun lowers to his left, but Sam is covered by the rest of the roof in such a way that the sunlight warms him just enough to not be bothersome this high.

This... this is the perfect home.

He told Riley once how he imagined his house, if he ever got to own one.

And it was a lot like this.

Sam's hands are shaking when he looks at them. He wants to hate it, but he can't. He adores it already.

Maybe he never made it out of the crumbling Triskelion and now that he's dead, he's experiencing his own dreams. Sam lets himself slide into the fantasy of living here, being with Riley, having Riley's arms around him instead of the cold touch of his headstone... fuck.

His eyes sting and Sam covers them with his palm, drawing air slowly.

This entire house tells him Riley was real. He is real.

It wasn't made up, and it sends a wave of hurt through his bones that makes Sam shudder.

It would've been easier if Riley was just a fabrication.

He could've hated Clint.

But...

Sam wipes at his cheeks, rubs his eyes. Enough of this. Clint left him in pain for four years. Left him alone to suffer over his empty grave.

He pulls himself away from his thoughts, crawls back inside, forcing his mind to focus on the mission. With one last sniffle, Sam replaces the cushion and closes the window before he wobbles to the other one.

Uh... this is peculiar. This window leads nowhere. Well, actually, it leads to the roof, but the slant of it right outside the sill is a lot steeper. Stepping out there would guarantee sliding down to the ground.

Wait. There are a couple of hooks a few inches below the window. This looks entirely like an emergency exit. Sam shuffles back, inspects the space carefully. Ah. Coiled climbing rope is hidden right under the hollow steps that lead up to the sill. Well, considering how Clint is an agent, it makes sense he has these sort of things lying around. Sam's curious why he hasn't seen any weapons yet.

He braces himself onto the frame of the window and looks down. Ok, this is even weirder. Landing down there means breaking a few bones because right outside there's a portion of the porch that has no awning. Instead, two of its wooden pillars are pointing up to where Sam is, cut off at the middle and looking mighty sharp from up here. He's been wondering about those.

So what is the point of all this? There are no windows to go through down there, the only room is... a closet? Yeah, there's a closet downstairs. And a portion of windowless wall that belongs to the room Sam hasn't been in yet. Clint's bedroom.

Sam closes the window and makes his way back to the ground floor. He isn't ready to go in that bedroom yet, but he can see what's inside the closet.

Wow, Sam has no words for it. At first glance the small space looks like an ordinary storage room. But there's a mechanism that opens a camouflaged door in the wall, providing an escape route. Climbing down from the roof must lead in here as well. Sam can't see an obvious way to open this from the outside, but there must be one.

And the cherry on top of everything, the metal cabinets on the side slide apart to reveal a staircase leading underground.

Sam ignores the twinges in his leg as he makes his way down, illuminated by the screen of his phone. Being on his feet so much is taking a toll on him, but this is too intriguing to leave for tomorrow. Sam is too curious.

What he finds is a door, metal, brand new, with a high tech electronic lock on the right. Sam bites his lip, fingers hovering over the keypad. He doesn't know much about Clint to be able to guess the password.

The light from the phone blinks out and Sam turns it back on. That's when he sees it, a faint inscription on the door.

_ 'The world whispering back.' _

Riley asked him, when they started flying, why Sam wasn't bothered by the howling of the air rushing around them at high velocity. And Sam told him,  _ 'nah, 's not howling. 's just the world...' _

"... whispering back," Sam murmurs. "As if it has a soul and it's sharing it with us."

Riley laughed then, this beautiful sound that filled Sam's chest with a sweet, gentle ache. That was when Sam knew, when he was gone for Riley. This perfect fragment of suspended time, as they sat shoulder to shoulder under the desert night sky, watching the moon shine its low light over the sand.

Maybe that moment meant something for Ri as well.

No. Clint. He is Barton, not Riley, Sam tells himself.

But his fingers move on their own, input their code. The one that opened both their lockers, in case they needed in, scrambled from the last digits of their birthdays.

The door slides open and Sam locks his jaw.

Clint is not Riley, he insists as his eyes fill again.

He breathes through it, carefully pushing back this revelation and what it could mean. Hope is dangerous, and Sam can already sense his anger fading away.

With a deep inhale, he steps inside the basement. As he walks, neons on the ceiling blink on, lighting up the room.

Whoa, talk about an arsenal.

So these are Clint's weapons. Sam wobbles toward where a few suits sit on racks, next to an impressive collection of bows and arrows. To the left, a long work table is lit up, pieces of electronics scattered about between arrow shafts, a couple of handguns disassembled next to gun oil and rags.

Hawkeye, huh?

The Avenger.

Sam runs his hands over the edge of a vest, wonders what Riley looks like dressed in this. He's seen footage of the Avengers, just like everyone else, but Hawkeye and Black Widow always seemed to avoid being filmed from up close. The media speculated for a while on their appearance. Sam snorts. They didn't get even remotely close.

With a scratch to his head, Sam wonders at the peculiarity of his life. Never in his wildest dreams would he have thought that he'd get to know the Avengers. Yet, here he is now.

In love with one... oh, fuck.

He swears at himself under his breath, because of course he'll go there. Of course.

But hey, sometimes ignorance is bliss, so Sam pushes this out of his mind as well, turning to look around. The rest of the space is divided into a sort of practice range, targets on the wall, and more racks of weapons in between metal filing cabinets. He slides a drawer open to find it filled with files, and Sam pulls one out.

A mission brief and report, signed by C.F. Barton.

"Target on sight," Sam mumbles as he reads through it, "children present, delay, target out..."

There's a reprimand for not following orders at the back of the file. Looks like Clint refused to kill a man in front of his kids. Clint's an assassin. Sniper. A very talented one at that, he discovers while perusing through some of the other files.

And Sam startles himself when he realizes that he isn't bothered by this at all. It also explains why Riley had so much patience while they waited for orders, sitting still and quiet. He vibrates with fumbling energy during down time, but... Vibrated. Then, not now.

Clint is not Riley, is he?

~

It turns into a clusterfuck five minutes in, because of course Clint can't sit on the side while part of the Hive explodes with Nat, Steve, and Tony inside.

And of course he gets hurt, because he's an idiot. Nat tells him as much, right before the world darkens.

~

Sam spends the night in the sun room, staring up at the sky, mind thankfully blank. He doesn't even know where to start processing everything. So he lifts himself with the first rays of the dawn, makes himself some coffee, and goes to sit in front of Clint's bedroom door.

He counts the minutes as they turn into an hour, then two, trying to psych himself up.

All that he manages is to numb himself.

With an exhale through his nose, he raises to his feet, turns the knob.

He doesn't know what he's been expecting, but it wasn't this. The room is barely furnished, like it's only halfway completed. Like it's missing something important, and Sam shivers.

A bed sits in the middle, two nightstands on either side. The windows of the room are framing the head of the bed, thick curtains hanging partly open, giving the entire space a warm feel. A dresser sits against a wall, a chair in a corner with a few clothes thrown on it. On the other side, the door to a closet hangs open. There isn't much in there, just more clothes and shoes. Sam also takes a closer look at the outer wall that's between the attic window and the hidden door in the storage room downstairs. Yeah, there's a faint outline where it must open. Sam doesn't see any obvious mechanisms next to it, but it doesn't mean they aren't there. The dresser holds underwear and grooming items. Nothing unusual. And Sam turns to the bed. The sheets look undisturbed on one side, the nightstand there completely empty.

One last place to look into, then. Carefully, Sam lowers himself against the bed, pulls open the drawer. Amongst a couple of burner phones, there's a watch and a photo album. Sam doesn't recognize the former, but it looks old. The album though... there's picture after picture of Sam with their unit. Some are with Riley, some with the other guys, some during downtime, others as they were about to take off.

Memories swirl around Sam with each frame.

They poke and prod at his mind, taking him back to where Riley was by his side.

He leans into the mattress, pulls the pillow closer as well, fully intent on letting himself remember those times, surrounded by Riley's smell.

A metallic clink draws his attention and Sam lifts the pillow to find a pair of dog tags on their chain underneath. He huffs as he grabs them. Riley never did like his tags, always complaining about them.

But these...

Sam stares at his own name etched into the metal plate.

He is frozen.

Utterly still.

Because there's that familiar dent next to the W. There's that tiny imperfection in the rubber that he used to run his thumb over every time he got in bed at night.

These are his old tags, the ones he lost the day Riley fell out of the sky.

And Sam can't breathe.

For long minutes, he struggles to inhale, while his veins feel solid, while his bones hurt all the way through.

His fingers shake with the first rush of air that makes it into his lungs and he drops the album. It falls open to two pictures of Sam in DC, one at the vet center and one at the cemetery.

It doesn't click immediately. It take a few beats, but then Sam scrambles to look through the album. Those two are the only pictures of him after Riley was gone, but it still means that Clint saw Sam. Saw him and said nothing. Saw Sam and left him to suffer.

The scream that leaves him hurts his throat.

He wants to tear those images to pieces, but as he claws at the plastic to get them out, a piece of paper falls onto his lap.

> _ 'I'm a coward. No matter how hard I try, I can't face you. Can't walk up to you and tell you I'm still here. Nat refuses to tie me up and bring me to you. Remember her? My best friend.  _ ~~_ Anyway, I hope you don't _ ~~
> 
> _ I hope you'll have a beautiful life, like you deserve. You know I told you that it's best not to regret anything in life? Yeah, was wrong. There's one thing that I should've told you long time ago, but I didn't. So I'm doing it now. _
> 
> _ I love you.' _

There are four more lines, starting with  _ 'I'm sorry' _ but the ink is smudged too badly for Sam to make out. The words blur and a drop plops right over the last row of the note.

> _ 'Please be happy, Sammy, for both of us.' _

"You fucking asshole," Sam chokes around a sob.

He shouts again against his palms as he presses them over his face.

He doesn't want to, but he gets it now.

This whole fucking house is a temple to Sam's dreams.

The sun room.

The books.

The attic and the roof.

The fucking square plates in the fucking kitchen.

The unused half of the bed.

Riley.

It's all been waiting for him. Just like Sam's been longing for it.

Clint's been waiting for Sam. Because he...

Clint is Riley.

~

"It's not that bad," Clint says and it pulls an exasperated sigh out of Tony.

"Not that ba--Barton, you had a piece of rebar sticking out of your middle!" Tony returns, throwing his hands in the air.

Steve sighs where he's leaning against the wall, pinches the bridge of his nose. Nat is very still next to the bed, and Clint doesn't dare look at her.

He fucked up. He fucked up big time.

"I'll call Sam," Steve says, shifting.

"No!" Clint stops him. "Don't you dare."

Steve crosses his arms and tilts his head in that 'really' look he gives people right before his stubbornness kicks in.

"Clint," Nat adds, "he'll be worried. It's been three days. You either go back or you call him."

Sam doesn't want anything to do with Clint. He's made it abundantly clear. As soon as Clint can get out of here, he's going to put the house in Sam's name. It's his anyway, Clint's made sure of it.

"I'm good here," he returns, fixing his eyes onto the blanket.

It's over.

Clint's tried and it ended with him in Tony's infirmary. If that's not a sign from the universe to leave Sam be, he doesn't know what it is.

~

Sam's hands shake so badly, that he misses the end call button altogether. It disconnects anyway and Sam drops the phone on the table in front of him.

Clint's been hurt.

"Okay, okay. Deep breaths," Sam tells himself, and forces his lungs to cooperate.

He almost lost Riley again, right after he's found him.

The point is Clint is still alive, so Sam tries to calm his rushing thoughts.

Steve told him that no vital organs were hit, but Clint's going to need a while to fully heal. He should be home, taking it easy and relaxing. But it seems like Clint's refusing to leave Stark Tower. Just a couple of hours ago he sneaked into the range and popped his stitches.

That's it. He's coming home even if Sam needs to drag his sorry ass all the way here.

He calls Steve back.

"Come and get me," he grits right after the call connects.

Asshole's not gotta get himself hurt and then run from Sam. Oh, no. He's gonna apologize, and do it well, and then let Sam take care of him like he should.

Sam startles.

Home?

Uh... yeah, he guesses.

But. Care for him?

Fuck. With his entire soul.

And maybe he's not in his right mind to welcome Clint in his life after everything, but Sam would rather have Clint next to him and be pissed at him, then not have Clint at all. Oh, there's gonna be groveling. There's gonna be making up for it.

But he'll be alive and Sam won't have to settle for a cold stone anymore.

~

Clint blinks his eyes open with a long exhale. Everything hurts with that dull ache that injuries brings about. It will start stabbing sharp pain into his middle soon, though, and Clint debates how long he can go without painkillers. Maybe a few more hours.

He shifts on his back and startles so badly that the jolt brings a wince followed by an 'ow' that spills unabated from his lips.

Sam is there, sitting on the chair, his cast leg up on a stool, chin in hand and glare on his face.

A beat, and Sam reaches to the nightstand, picks up a pill from the bottle there and hands it over. Clint swallows it without realizing, frozen under Sam stare.

Sam, who is here, watching him for long minutes. Clint doesn't dare move.

"Steve said you've been stubborn about taking your pills."

Right on cue, the tension is Clint's body starts to dissipate. Aw, painkiller. Clint doesn't deserve the bliss it brings. Sam thumbs at his phone, brings it to his ear.

"He's awake. Yeah. Thank you."

And before Clint can say anything, John, the biggest nurse to exist in this world, is helping Clint out of bed and into the bathroom. Clint slams the door in his face. He can pee on his own, thank you very much.

He pinches his forearm. Nope, he's still awake. Or dreaming the dream of the dead. Ok, he needs coffee first. Many coffee. No, much coffee. Lot. A lot! And he goes through the motions of brushing his teeth and washing his face without managing to understand what is going on.

When he returns, breakfast is waiting for him on a rolling table, and so is John, who makes Clint go back into bed, although this time he's allowed to rest up on the pillows.

Actually, breakfast is for two and Sam's already digging in like this is the most natural thing in the world. Clint sips his coffee slowly. Sam pushes Clint's plate closer and Clint eats.

It's surreal.

It's everything he's ever wanted, to share in the companionable silence as the world wakes up around them. To be this close to Sam. Clint is dreaming.

"You're not dreaming," Sam says.

Aw, mouth. Clint shoves the rim of the mug between his lips.

"But you're still half asleep, so tell me when that coffee kicks in, 'cos we gotta talk."

Clint has a hard time swallowing around the sudden lump that takes residence in his throat. But Sam patiently refills his mug, leans back and waits even after he's finished eating. Clint's heart pounds painfully against his ribs.

"I'm awake," he finally rasps, putting the mug down.

Sam rolls the table to the side before leaning forward in his chair, elbows on the armrests and fingers intertwined in his lap. Clint can't look at him anymore, but can't take his eyes off either.

"Will you lie to me again?" Sam asks.

"No," Clint returns immediately. It's a no brainer.

With a hum, Sam nods. "Then tell me what was a lie."

Clint's throat clicks as he swallows and he inhales carefully.

"My name," he starts, "is Clint Barton. My brother's name was Barney and not Bart. Everything about my parents was true, and we did join the circus. Barney died just like I told you, then I joined the military. Found out my SO was beating up the younger recruits, reported him, almost got dishonorably discharged for it because nobody would talk against him, and instead of running black ops for the military, I got recruited into SHIELD."

Clint inhales with a gasp. That's everything. He's told Sam the same story in the same general lines. When Fury said they'd use his own life to create his cover, he wasn't kidding.

With a hum, Sam nods. "Not many differences. I assumed Natasha is your friend Natalie."

"She is," Clint says.

"All those little stories you told me, were any of them lies?"

Clint immediately shakes his head. "No, just changed the names and places."

With that, Sam leans back in his chair, fingers rubbing over his lips, like he's considering Clint, and Clint can't take it, he averts his eyes. There's a thread loose in the hem of the blanket and he focuses on that instead of the way his heart beats frantically in his chest.

"Natasha told me what your mission was. But why didn't you come see me after?"

Clint screws his eyes shut. He's been dreading this question. But he'll answer it anyway, he promised, no lies.

"I tried," he chokes. Breathe in, and out, and again. "I tried," he manages, "after they pulled me out. Even got as close to your door, but a strike team took me down... there were lives at stake, women and children, and-and-and... I couldn't."

Clint swallows. Sam is quiet and Clint doesn't dare open his eyes.

"It took Fury eight fucking months to wrap up the operation, and by then it was too late. I came to see you, but I couldn't..."

His throat burns on the inside.

Warm fingers wrap around Clint's wrist. "Here," Sam says, and places a glass in his hand.

Clint drinks. Sam's thumb slides rhythmically on his forearm, up and down and up and down... and Clint is finally breathing again. When he dares look up, Sam's face is wrapped in the sort of hurt that stabs right through Clint's chest.

"It's been four years," Sam says as he takes the glass away.

Right. So much time has passed. So many things have happened. He clears his throat, forcing the words out.

"When New York got attacked, it was because I made it possible. Loki, Thor's brother, brainwashed me into helping him. I killed friends then. Almost murdered everyone."

Sam's eyebrows knit into a frown and the fingers around Clint's right arm tighten, but he pushes through.

"I was really out of it for over a year. I just... couldn't risk coming near. Couldn't risk hurting you."

"Why?" Sam asks and Clint snaps his mouth shut.

He's said too much.

"Not important," Clint returns.

"Hmm," Sam hums, the corner of his mouth falling into a grimace. "I guess that's not technically a lie, if this is what you believe," he says.

Clint stills.

"So then tell me, why do you have these?" Sam asks and pulls something out from under his t-shirt.

Sam's dog tags. The ones that have kept him alive and sane for the past years. His lifeline. Clint's mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out. He won't lie, but he can't...

"I can't explain," he rasps.

Please, please, please, don't make Clint say it. Don't do it, because then Sam will run as fast as he can and Clint can't lose him. Finally they're talking. Maybe they can be friends again in the future, but if Clint says it, then. Then. All hope drains out of Clint when Sam frowns.

"Yes, you can," Sam returns, too gentle, too kind.

His touch burns through Clint's skin and Clint's face is hot, the air stifling as his vision blurs. A beat, and Sam's hand disappears, but only for a second, because Sam shifts to sit on the bed.

So close.

So warm, as he wraps his arms around Clint. So solid as he lets Clint rest his overheated forehead on Sam's shoulder.

"Can't." The word grates on the inside of his throat.

"Yes, you can," Sam repeats. His fingers move through Clint's hair, a caress Clint doesn't deserve. "Come on Ri, it's me, you can tell me anything."

Yeah, he can. He could always talk to Sammy, about everything, from the loss of their parents to their hopes for the future.

"I'm in love with you," he breathes.

And he waits for Sam to vanish, because this is how all these dreams end, with a bitter hole right in the middle of his chest. But Sam is still real, still here.

"Same here."

What. Clint leans back, blinks the wetness out of his eyes.

"Doesn't mean you're forgiven, though," comes next. "You got a lot of apologizing to do."

No, Clint is not hearing this right.

"There's a lot of fucked up shit you put me through."

"I'm sorry," Clint breathes.

Sam wipes at Clint's cheeks. "I know," he says. "But I... stupid things," Sam mutters, looking away.

It makes Clint's stomach flip, and he grips at Sam's sides, as tightly as he can with one hand shaking and the other in a cast.

"I'm sorry," he tries again, the pang is his stomach turning sharp. "Ow!"

Sam pulls away and there's blood on Clint's t-shirt. "Shit," he mutters, reaching for the call button.

There's chaos for while. Clint's popped another stitch, but that's fine, because Sam is still there. He's in a corner, out of the way, but still looking at Clint.

Hope swirls inside his chest, unabated, for the first time in a very long while.

~

Sam slides lower on the pile of pillows and blankets in the sun room, Clint carefully cradled against his chest. He smiles at the starry night sky outside.

They're good. Not perfect, but getting there. Their casts have come off, Clint is healed. The world still needs superheroes, and now Sam's apparently an Avenger. Huh. But he likes it.

On the home front, they spend most of the time in comfort around each other. They haven't kissed yet, but they do sleep in the bed upstairs. Or down here for that matter. Sam likes the way Clint feels against him.

They do have bad days, when Sam's angry and Clint emanates so much guilt, they can't even look at each other.

But they still keep close, even in moments like those.

Sam figures he shouldn't have told Clint how ready he was to join Riley, but if he expects complete honesty from Clint, Sam won't hide anything either. So much pain has filled the last four years, and Sam won't wipe it away as if it wasn't there. It was, and it almost destroyed him. Clint listens when Sam recounts his days, cries so hard that it makes Sam burst into sobs until they're both wrung out. Clint hasn't had a peach time either, and Sam shares in his struggles as Clint talks about nightmares and magical stones.

Today's been a beautiful bright day. They've shot arrows at the trees, took turns with the wings, and cooked potatoes together.

Tomorrow they'll meet with the rest of the Avengers in New York, they've got missions to run. Apparently the bad guys that raided that Hive facility made it out with more than plans and prototypes. Between the search for Bucky Barnes and the search for Loki's scepter, they have their hands full.

For tonight though, Sam can relax. Clint is warm in his arms, his pulse steady. Sam presses his lips on Riley's forehead.

"I'll see you tomorrow, baby," he whispers, closing his eyes.

As he does every night.

The trees outside shift and shuffle with the wind. The world has a soul and it's sharing it with them, just like Riley's sharing his with Clint. Just like both share it with Sam.

With this whisper, and a promise.

Tomorrow is another day.

~End~

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[FANART] Whisper](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12906975) by [Snowflakesandangels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowflakesandangels/pseuds/Snowflakesandangels)




End file.
